I've been hard at play on the Possible Third Book (aka PG47 Story Of O Without Sex). I can't say I've been hard at work on it, because I've been having far too much fun to call it work.
Yesterday, when through sheer willpower I didn't write anything, I came up with one or two new scenes. I've already written 135 pages, which is a lot in ten days, even for me. Days like today, when I really have to do my recycling and have lunch with my mother, break my heart. I just wanna be writing!
I have to admit that in the neverending battle between me and the bleakity bleak, the bleakity bleak is in total control. Caitlin, my poor beleaguered heroine, is rivaling St. Sebastian for martyrdom, although I think she has more of a sense of humor about it.
The real problem (okay, one of several real problems) is that I've gotten it into my adorable delusional head that what I'm writing is, how can I put this, acceptable. Not necessarily to Harcourt, or any other publisher on the face of the earth, but rather in terms of straightline story telling.
Then again, I hear tell that William Shakespeare felt the same way about Titus Andronicus, with its rapes and mutilations, fourteen murders, and Mrs. Andronicus being chopped up for supper and served to her children.
Shakespeare's editor made him cut out the line about the children asking for seconds.
It occurred to me (as these things do) that while I'm a complete illiterate in young adult literature, much of my slowly gained readership is quite well versed in it. Some of you, I know, came to this blog from a sci fi background, and no doubt a handful are here simply because of my extraordinary artistic skills, and of course I can't forget those friends and family who read it because they feel they have to. Smooches to all of you.
But the rest of you actually know something about contemporary YAs. So those of you who do (or those of you who simply want to fool me), can do me a big favor. Could you, either in the comments, or if you're shy, through that darling "e-mail me" box on the upper left, tell me what's acceptable in YAs these days? What little I know suggests that they're mostly about vampires or cliques (and presumably cliquish vampires). Or Nazis. Or sexual slavery. Just about all of which, except for the vampires, P3B flirts with.
Okay. "Flirts" is a bit of a euphemism.
I don't see myself having the willpower to change direction with P3B while I'm writing it. All the new material I come up with increases its quota of ghastlihood. But I figure there's a chance that Harcourt will never choose to read it, and even if it does, it won't be for a few months, which will give me the time to come to my senses and do a major overhauling. That's assuming your comments give me a strong sense that P3B is way over the top (as opposed to only being moderately over the top, which I know is but a dream).
So I really would appreciate it if you'd let me know what becomes of characters in today's YAs. Degradation? Rape? Torture? Murder? Eating their mommies?
Billy Shakespeare and I would both be very grateful.